Viva La Revolution
by MaggsAM
Summary: Set in a futuristic and crumbling Paris, Clary Fairchild travels from her homebase on the moon to participate in the artistic revolution. Accompanied only with her artistry and idealism, she soon finds that Parisian truth and freedom is threatened by a capitalistic regime, operated by a dictator named Valentine. The only thing that stands in his way is a young man named Jace.
1. Chapter 1

It was..._hideous_.

Crown molding, once grand and regal crumbled to near ash. Different textures and patterns of wallpaper overlapped and peeled down the surface of the four walls. The floorboards moaned under any kind of pressure, and looked nearly rotted through. A furnace hissed from a shadowy corner. The only upside of the entire apartment was a giant yellowed window, covered in pollen and soot, and occupying half of the wall, overlooking the heap of the sinful and decrepit city that was Paris.

"It's perfect." Clary whispered, eyes sparkling with truth.

The hunchbacked landlord stared at her incredulously and let out a phlegmy choke that Clary assumed was an attempted laugh.

True, the place looked as if it was infested with bedbugs, termites, and the possible rat or two. But to Clary, it was beautiful.

It represented the face of the her personal revolution.

It was classic.

It was a metaphor.

And to Clary, it was exactly the kind of place that a struggling young artist should be living in.

"You're not from Earth, are you?" She spoke, startling Clary out of her wonderment.

"Moon base." She responded. Earth dwellers could always tell who wasn't part of the planet. Although she wasn't sure why.

"And you're one of those romantics, aren't you?" The crouched woman asked, jowls trembling.

"By romantics, you mean starving artists? Than yes."

"Ugh. I've had just enough of you poor poets and painters. Everyday it's a new one, thinking this is some kind of Mecca for art and truth. They all starve in the end. And I always have to clean up the bodies." She growled, and promptly turned through the doorway.

_She has to be kidding_, Clary gulped.  
But there was some solidity in the old woman's words. Clary was one of those fools who had embarked to Paris in the quest to discover truth, and humanity, and craft her art. And hey, if she happened to become the most famous artist in Paris, and the voice of her generation...so be it.

She walked over to the grimy window, and peered out at the ashy city below. In the distance she could see what was left of the slowly crumbling Eiffel tower. Everything was cramped and close together, and speckled with people. A brown ribbon of water ran through the city, on which steam boats floated close together.

Normally, Clary would agree with her landlord about the grim appearance of her apartment and city. But it was the idea of the city that captured her without reserve, and Clary was an idealist.

There was no art on the moon. There was no life. There was no struggle, and therefore no honesty. Humans were always more honest when their mortality was threatened. And any good artist needs to suffer. Or if not suffer, at least be surrounded by inspiring people.

Hence the reason she needed to be in Paris, as it was the beginning of a new era of art and beauty and philosophy, right in this very city.

And she intended to experience it all with eyes wide open.


	2. Chapter 2

She couldn't possibly do it.

Her hands were clammy and clutched tightly at the blood red fabric between her fingertips. The sequins scratched her palms mercilessly.

"It gets easier."

"What-?" Clary started, turning to face the girl next to her.

"I said it gets easier." She smirked, turning her gaze back into the illuminated mirrors.

Clary couldn't think of anything that would ever be easy about dressing in scant clothing to put food on the table. Just thinking about what she was going to do within the next hour was enough to make her eyes well up with tears.

"Oh hey now." The girl spoke again, this time in a slightly softer tone, and Clary was instantly embarrassed. She looked around the dimly lit dressing room, lined with mirrors and vibrant costumes, making sure no other girls saw her certain panic.

"C'mon. What's your name?"

"C-Clary." She stammered, blinking rapidly and willing her nerves away.

"Isabelle."

Clary shook her hand and really looked at her for the first time.

She was beautiful.

Her long dark hair hung in a thick curtain down her back, and she sported a haughty grin. She was tall and voluptuous and everything Clary was intimidated by. Standing at barely five feet, she suddenly felt as small as her height.

"You're not from here, are you? Are you from the mo-"

"-moon, yeah." Clary finished.

"Wow. You must feel doubly out of place."

Clary nodded, blushing all the way to her dark red roots.

"Do you need, ah-?" Isabelle trailed off, pointing to Clary's costume.

"Please."

Standing in front of Isabelle in only her underwear was pretty awkward, but being helped into her practically non-existent garment was even more so. Isabelle let out a low whistle.

"Looks like Sebastian sure wants some attention on you."

Clary stood out like a firework in the dark, but she didn't feel any spark of power or importance. All she felt was the need to burn out immediately.

"Try to stand up straighter, you know? Confidence."

Isabelle reached for her shoulders and pushed her chest out.

Clary could scarcely look at her reflection for more than a few moments. She was dressed in a lace bustier, ruffled shorts, and fishnets. From the back of her barely-there shorts, a long cloth, like a sequined tail, trailed down to her heels. All a dark, blood red, matching her hair. Her flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes only added more color.

"Fake it till you make it, babydoll. It sure does make your green eyes pop."

"Green and red, I feel like Christmas." Clary let out a morbid chuckle.

"What's Christmas?" Isabelle inquired.

"Uh...nevermind."

"Look, you're prepared. Just go out and dance like the rest of us. I'll stay by you if you want."

Clary sharply turned to the girl, who displayed the first kind gesture she had received since coming to Paris a month ago.

"Please do." Clary mumbled. She would never be ready for what she was about to do, but somehow the knowledge that this stranger would be by her side, gave her comfort.

From the ceiling above, a trumpet wailed. Most of the girls began to filter out, and Clary turned her attention back to Isabelle.

"So what kind of bohemian are you?" She asked, adding sparkles to her unnatural pink cheeks.

"How did you know?"

"Anyone who isn't a starving wouldn't be here. And you are obviously desperate. Therefore you have no income. Therefore you must be some kind of artist."

Clary shook her head, a small smile forming on her lips at the absurdity and yet sudden truth of Isabelle's reasoning.

"I'm an artist. A painter. Drawing. Occasional sculpting."

"Singer." She smirked, gesturing to herself.

"I can see that."

"Oh yeah? How?"

"You're pretty confident." Clary pointed out.

Isabelles smile remained although her eyes clouded over.

"We all do what must be done to continue."

Clary quickly changed the subject.

"Do you think you could give me a few pointers?" She asked, grasping at lipstick tubes.

Isabelle's moment of secrecy vanished as her eyes lit up once more.

* * *

"There." Isabelle pulled away, letting Clary observe herself for the first time in the mirror.

Clary gasped.

Her eyes were a shocking bottle green, framed in glitter and long dark lashes. Her lips looked bee-stung and soft. Her hair fell past her shoulders in dark waves, and her skin looked like porcelain. She felt..beautiful.

And then immediately guilty. There was nothing beautiful about what she was doing.

"I knew you looked like a babydoll!" Isabelle laughed at her aforementioned nickname for Clary.

"Or maybe bombshell. You're a knockout."

Clary had never been called any of those things before. Gently she wrapped her arms around herself.

"Oh no, no, no. None of that. Come on. It's almost time for us to go on." Isabelle grasped her hands, leading her to the ladder which lead to the floor above.

Clary felt herself start to quake.

She placed her heel on the first rung of the ladder, but found herself immoble.

"Hey." Isabelle snapped her fingers in her face.

"_I know what you are._ You're like me. You were in search of an infinite truth. Of beauty beyond compare, beauty that YOU created. But you failed, unfortunately. You are starving, you are desperate, and some handsome man named Sebastian saw that in you, thought you were a piece of damaged artwork. Compared you to the sun. Said he could help you. And now here you are."

Clary stared deep into Isabelle's endless eyes.

"We are. Not because we're bad people. But because we must be. _We all do what must be done to continue_."

Clary shot out from between Isabelle's palms, and grasped at her torso into a sudden and desperate hug. She had always been a little shy, a little untrusting. And yet, here she was hugging a stranger, the only lifeline she knew on this cold, miserable planet.

"Yeah, yeah." Isabelle brushed her off with a smirk, although not unkindly.

"Come on Clary, it's time."

Clary turned to face the ladder once more.

This time when she went to put her foot on the first step, she did not shake.

* * *

A/N: Hey everyone! I'm so excited to be writing again, and I can't tell you how OBSESSED I am with The Mortal Instruments. I'm just enamored. If you haven't read it already, GO. I seriously am dying with anticipation for the movie. (August 21st, USA). Lily Collins is my biggest girl crush, and Jamie Campbell Bower is just the perfect Jace. I picture them as I write. Anyway, I hope this steampunk/Moulin Rouge phase I'm writing is satisfying and not too corny. More details about Clary and her circumstance will be revealed in time. As for Jace, his appearance will be just around the corner. (Possibly literally...? ;] )  
Let me know what y'all think, and please enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

The sound could only be described as a roar.

It was all lights and heat and pounding music, and the cries of voices. Clary would have stopped in her tracks to take it all in, had the line of girls behind and in front of her cease to move. Instead they pushed her forward, a wave of half naked bodies in shades of endless harsh colors, stomping on the wooden stage.

When the girls faced the club in a line, Clary first got her glimpse of the festering insides in what felt like the belly of a beast.

It was pitch black, save for strobe lights cutting and quivering, the heat of the stage lamps, and black lights which adorned the shadowy VIP corners. The space seemed dense and endless.

She felt her hand being squeezed, and visibly jumped before realising it was Isabelle, fulfilling her promise to remain close to her.

"Welcome to Idris. Or hell. Either one." Isabelle shouted over the pounding bass.

From the front of the stage, Clary could see limbs, arms, groping and thrusting and grabbing. Throwing money at her ankles. Hundreds of hands reaching for her, screaming for her to shake her body.

She felt sick.

Suddenly, a lick of familiar guitar blared through her fuzzy conscious. And she found herself moving her body with the rest of the girls in a trance like state.

Thrusting, gyrating, kissing one another. Shaking her inadequate chest. Someone's sweaty blonde hair whipped her in the face, as another girl squeezed her inner thigh.

All of the things the girls did, all for men, all for money, all not to starve on the streets with the rats and the sewage.

Clary could barely form her thoughts, but when they finally appeared out of her fear induced haze, she realized she had been repeating a familiar mantra the entire time: Is it even worth it?

Maybe death was kinder.

No, that couldn't be true.

Although, for a timid girl like herself, she had never known a greater horror. It was survival of the fittest, and she had to adapt. The pains in her stomach were to soon ease. And all of this, would not be in vain.

After all, all artists must suffer to discover the truth. Isn't that what she told herself when she first moved here? And wasn't that still true?

All of this was experience. Experience she never had on the moon base. She never really lived.

Though, could this really be called living?

After what seemed like an eternity and yet, a brief second, the dancing on stage was over. Clary found herself paused with her leg wrapped around another girl she'd never met, her hands in her own dark red locks. There was thunderous applause.

Vaguely she realized the irony of it all. Applause. Finally. But not for her own creations, but for her body. _Won't mother and Luke be so proud_?

"Clary!" She heard Isabelle call, and once more her hand was squeezed, as the girls exited the stage onto the floor.

It was like a madhouse. She was being shoved and groped and prodded. Someone pulled her hair. She shrieked, but Isabelle kept moving deeper into the crowd, their hands still entwined. She was leading them to a podium, suspended above the crowd. Looking around, Clary realized there were a bunch of podiums, as the girls clamoured onto the raised platforms, shadowy figures ogling up from the base.

Isabelle climbed, and Clary followed in a daze.

"Here." Isabelle yelled, as she reached for Clary's outstretched hand and hoisted her onto the platform. God knows what she would have done if Isabelle hadn't spoken to her only an hour earlier. She would have been swallowed by the darkness of the crowd. The thought made her shiver.

She glanced over at Isabelle, who was spinning delicately around a pole that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

"Don't just stand there, shaking like a newborn calf! Shimmy a bit."

Clary half heartedly shook her shoulders and Isabelle threw her head back in a laugh.

"C'mere. At least put your hand around my waist and we'll sway a bit. Make it look like we're doing something instead of just standing around."

Clary glanced at the other platforms above the crowd. The girls were visibly into the music, eyes closed, dancing like they were alone. But Clary felt the eyes of hundreds on her.

"See, look we're already off the stage. It's already getting better. You know, I've been super nice to you this whole time. I think you owe me a dinner. After you feed yourself, that is." Isabelle yelled into her ear, pinching her ribs.

From the vantage point, Clary could see almost the entire crowd. The center was just a mass of black, with the occasional glow sticks. The corners were softly illuminated in blue, where booths of people gathered sipping drinks. Clary could see a few of the tables featured a girl, spinning around in a private show. She sent a silent thanks to the hot air above her head for not being one of those girls. At least not tonight.

"Look." Isabelle pointed to the pit orchestra beneath the stage.

Clary followed her finger to a tall dark haired boy, playing the piano in dim lighting, a ring of a glow stick illuminating his head like a halo.

"My brother, Alec!"

She couldn't see his features very well, but he was tall and darked haired like Isabelle, and she supposed that was their most distinguishable trait. Briefly she wondered if he had her bright eyes as well.

She couldn't imagine anyone from her own family seeing her like this.

Not that family mattered much now.

"That over there, you know. Sebastian."

The name washed over her like ice.

He stood in a corner, observing the crowd with arms crossed and a sadistic grin.

Yes, she knew him all too well.

"Want to have an adventure?" Isabelle turned to her, a mischievous glint to her eyes.

_No._ Clary wanted to say._ I want to play it safe until I wake up from this terrible dream._

But Isabelle didn't wait for a reply. Gripping her hand once more, she practically pulled Clary down the ladder and darted for a corner booth.

_Nonononono_, Clary's mind shouted as once more she was thrust into the convulsing, howling crowd. Again, she felt hands violating her body all over. She squeezed her eyes shut and kept moving until they practically burst out of the air tight body mass. There was a bit of light, blue, the clinking sound of glass, and a garbled language. Everything was beginning to spin.

As if from another dimension, in the back of her mind, Clary heard Isabelle introduce her to someone, and then she fell.

She saw the black of the floor, before a sharp pain encircled her wrists and she was flung forward, and her eyes locked on solid gold.

It was as if all of the air was sucked from the room. The pounding music vanished, and it was only silence. A complete, encompassing silence. And gold gold gold golden eyes.

Eyes that were traced by thick dark lashes. A nose, a tender pink mouth. A faint white scar on the left cheekbone.

And then sound and air was back with a brutal force.

Someone was saying something.

"Huh?" Clary murmured.

Everyone laughed.

"I said," Isabelle turned Clary to face her, "This is my brother, Jace. And our friends."

The table was crowded with an assortment of hodge-podge people, all dressed oddly and looking a little grimy.

Once Clary had observed the table, she was suddenly afraid to turn back around to the boy whose lap she now realized she inhabited. But as if by a magnetic force, she slowly rotated her head back to his gaze.

"And who the hell are you?" Jace laughed, although his eyes were calculating and observant.

"Um," Clary stood up, pressing her hand down over her pounding sternum.

"I'm Clary. Clary Fairchild."

"Well Clary," A boy with a full beard and kind eyes spoke, "It's nice of you to drop in."

And the table erupted once more with laughter.

"Oh shut up guys. It's her first day."

That sobered them up immediately.

"Another Sebastian recruit?" Jace asked, turning to Isabelle.

Clary took the time to study him. He was dressed in head to toe black leather. It looked thick. A hood hung over his yellow locks, which stopped a little past his ears. His cheekbones were regal, his jaw muscular and clenching.

She wondered if he observed her as quickly as she observed him, and blushed in humiliation at what he must have thought.

Jace and Isabelle were chatting, and Clary was zoning in and out, observing the table with a quiet wonderment and an artist's eye. If she were to paint all of them, they would be in shadows of gray and black, with the occasional splash of blue or violet for accent. But Jace, Jace would be in gold.

"Get up on the table." He growled.

"What?" Clary glared, suddenly snapped out of her enamored state.

"Get on the table." Isabelle repeated, reaching for her waist and practically hoisting her on the surface. Clary sat on her knees, somewhat elevated above them, in shock.

"Lay down." Jace hissed, grabbing her neck.

His hand was large and warm, and although it felt dangerous, his touch was gentle as he guided her down to lay on her back on the table. She felt someone push her knees into the air, and spread her legs apart, and she gasped in surprised and fear.

"Shhhh." Jace whispered, as he glanced around and made eye contact with someone.

Clary couldn't see who exactly it was, but his stare was relentless, his jaw clenching, his eyes ice. Without looking away, he slipped money into her bustier between her breasts. She was both humiliated and unable to look away. She felt the soft hand of Isabelle slip into her own and give it a reassuring squeeze.

"Sebastian." She explained later, when Jace looked away and the attention was now back on her.

"Don't want to make him suspicious."

Gently, she sat up, her eyes wide.

So much had happened tonight. So much fear, anxiety, adrenaline. She wasn't sure if she could handle another surge of emotion.

"Where are you living?" Isabelle asked.

"Nouvelle Ville." Clary whispered, thinking of the peeling wallpaper and single mattress.

She was going to be evicted any day now.

"Not anymore."

"Excuse me?" She gasped, incredulously.

"Not anymore." Jace repeated, and she turned her gaze to him.

"You're not living there anymore. You're coming home with us. Where you belong."

It seemed as if she could handle just one more emotional tidal wave for the night.


End file.
